Page 40 of How to Belong with a Billionaire

“I don’t like choices.” He picked up his knitting again. “I never have.”

This left me faffing helplessly with the label on my Blandford Fly. “What will you do? I mean, if you don’t think you can work for Caspian anymore?”

“Mr. Steyne will be expecting me back.”

“Donot”—I said fiercely—“do that.”

Ilya gave a faint smile. “I wasn’t intending to.”

I de-hackled. “Oh. Okay then. Good.”

“What he found in me was always there, and I’m grateful. What he did to Caspian was wrong, and I shall never forgive him.”

Apparently I wasn’t capable of moderation when it came to Lancaster Steyne. “I’ve got to tell you, from everything I’ve heard about the man, if I learned he’d saved a kitten from a fire, I’d be inclined to think it was for his own fucked-up purposes.”

“Yes, of course.” The click of Ilya’s needles seemed disconcertingly merry given the topic of conversation. “But the kitten would still be broadly better off.”

“If that kitten was me, I’d take theburn to the deathoption.”

“That’s because you’ve never been on fire.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but then realised I didn’t actually have a counterpoint. Largely because he was right. “I’m sorry,” I said instead, “your life has taken you to such shitty places that you needed Lancaster Steyne.”

“I have no regrets. Salvation and destruction can be remarkably similar experiences, and I much prefer the way I live now to the way I did before. In any case, you don’t need to worry. I will not return to him.”

“And he’ll let you go?”

“Of course. He has no interest in me whatsoever.” Ilya gave the slightest of shrugs. “He only cares about Caspian—to a definition of caring that most would find alien.”

My stomach roiled unhappily. “Why the fuck isn’t he in prison?”

“Because that’s not what happens to people like him.”

“I hate everything.” I plonked my head down on the table and lay there for a little bit.

Ilya reached out and stroked my hair in a slightly mechanical way. “There, there.”

“What…um…what was that?”

“I’m comforting you. I think.”

I couldn’t help giggling at his uncertainty. “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry. It’s not really part of my skill set.”

“It’s okay. And none of this is about me. So”—I pulled myself upright again—“I should really stop whining.”

He gazed at me solemnly. “Not on my account.”

“I’m good. I promise.” I mean, I wasn’t good. I was sad and fucked up and angry on behalf of a lot of people. But I wasn’t quite selfish enough to expect consolation for it.”

“You look tired.”

“Long day. I had to interview Caspian and Nathaniel forMilieu, though honestly it went about as well as could be expected, considering. I just”—a yawn pounced on me out of nowhere—“gosh, sorry. I just didn’t sleep so well last night because I was worrying about it.”

“Understandably. And I shouldn’t keep you.”

Urgh. Why did people say stuff like that? I could never tell if they meant “I would really like to hang out with you longer but I feel self-conscious about taking up your time,” “this has been lovely but I have other things to do,” or “this has been awful and now I am trying to get to rid of you.” Anyway, I was still a little scared of…Bellerose? Ilya? So in case it was Option 3, I nodded. “I’m really glad you agreed to meet me, though.”

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